confessions of the damned {Cass}

There was a time when the first thing that popped into his mind was blood. There was a time when the first thing he did in the morning was grab a knife and throw it at a dummies head, smirking, ever so slightly to himself at the way it embedded itself into the clothe that represented a person’s face. It was crazy how his life revolved around training, fighting and contemplating who next to torture, bully and hurt. It was crazy how blood was always on his mind, how the thought of killing, of ending a life meant little more than nothing to him. It had been so simple to stare down at someone, to see them and watch as their eyes widened, as their lips parted, as they screamed, begged and pleaded for you to not kill them. He’d been cold, stony, he’d not even reacted to their cries, not felt a single twinge of guilt, remorse or pain at what he was doing. It had all been so incredibly easy. It had never been hard to kill anyone; Patch Grey had always found the task easy, enjoyable even. There was always that grim smirk, those eyes, burning bright. People said he was psychotic, twisted, sadistic and deranged.

And maybe he had been. And maybe he still was.

But now he held the belief that he wasn’t as lost, he wasn’t as bad, and he was in fact a better person (by what dictionary did he hold that belief he knew not. How was there even a single thought swimming in his vast mind suggesting for an instance that the lives he had claimed could be ever thought of as a forgotten, mistaken deed? There was no way in hell he could or would ever repent for his wrongs. It was a hopeless cause, just as his foolish view that this beats could be better). That was horribly cliché, and he knew it. He had thought over those words a million different times, head pressed down into his pillow, eyes turned up to stare at the roof of his room. They’d look without seeing, mind focused on the train of thoughts swirling madly within his head. His arms would lie stiffly by his sides, legs outstretched. His hands would itch to move to Indigo, to graze her skin, to hold her. To feel her against his body as he wrapped his arms tightly around her and simply held her body in his. These were emotions, and notions within his life that he had believed would never exist. The things he felt, the things he wanted to do were things he never thought could be possible. He was monster in every way that the word existed.

Some part of him believed he did not deserve what he had. And then the rest of him knew that that was true. There wasn’t an inch of him that thought he deserved it, that thought it was right. As ever the warm, comforting body of Indigo Soren by his side was enough to drag back all the memories he was trying to forget. For the first time in his life he was living with regret, he felt guilt every day and he’d never admit it, but he liked it. It felt human. All it took was one look – a single glance in her direction before his resolve to think of himself as a better person vanished. It took, but a few painful moments before his eyes were swimming with the memories of the time he had bashed her up – beaten her to a bloody, messy pulp. Patch Grey was not a hero; he was not a good guy. He was bad. He had done horrible things, he had killed people. He had hurt so many people he couldn’t count.

There was so much blood on his hands and slowly, but surely he was beginning to feel the pain that he had caused. It was beginning to eat away at him, and he couldn’t stop it as it gnawed its way into his heart and his soul. The only thing that came from the unexpected attacks of misery was the fact that there weren’t enough good things in this world for him to do to make it all better. He’d hurt her, he’d hurt her really badly. And now all he felt was a deep ache in his chest when he looked at her, as though all he could do was try and make it all better. And he’d do that; he’d try and try for as long as he had to.

There had been moments, days even when he would simply stare at her. He couldn’t believe she was still by his side. Not after everything he had done to her. By everything right in this world she was not supposed to be there. And yet for two years she had stuck to him. And in that time she had convinced him, without even needing to say it, that he was a better person. Now as they stood in the district square, the reaping having just begun he couldn’t help but grip her hand and hold it tight. For the first time he was very much pleased that he wasn’t in there. For the first time ever he had no urge to volunteer, no urge to cry out and sneer at the children called to their deaths. ”I know my cousins and I aren’t close, but I can‘t watch them die. I hope they make it out okay.” Her soft words were enough to make him look down, eyes flickering instantly to those perfect brown eyes. He could see the way they widened, and even though he had no family, he knew what she must be feeling. Not two years ago had he felt the same way, his heart hammering in his chest as he waited, hoping that her name wouldn’t be called out.

Before long the panic seemed to die as two unfortunate souls’ stepped onto stage, before being led away. Patch watched, unsure of how to feel, but in the end feeling nothing more than a flicker of sadness for the two children. Without hesitating Indigo walked away, Patch followed. They stepped into the graveyard and he instantly knew what they were looking for. Cringing at the tombstones he followed, he forced himself to not look at any of the stones, he forced himself to keep his eyes on the back of Indigo’s head, lest he spot a grave marked with a spill of letters, sent there by his own hands. Indigo Soren stopped by her twin sister’s grave and Patch watched, numb to it all as her hands curled into fists, as she spoke, the words slipping from her lips painfully. And then she was facing him.

”Patch.” She said. ”There’s something I need to tell you.” And when their eyes meet he wanted to just hold her. He wanted to grab her and just tell her how sorry he was. For everything. But Patch grey did not apologise for anything, so instead he stood still, unmoving as she spoke. ”Something that I’ve been keeping a secret.” Patch averted his gaze, his eyes travelling over the rows and rows of tombstones set out in front of him. He had no doubt that this secret troubled her, he held no doubt whatsoever that he wouldn’t even blink if it was something she deemed horrifying. Indigo Soren had no clue how many graves in front of her were there because of him, that one of them held his father’s name, there because Patch had done the deed himself. He’d killed his own father. What on Earth would she say to that? What could he say to the girl he had fallen in love with – the girl he had beaten up, bashed and almost killed?

There was nothing. Nothing would ever make it better.

”You know you can tell me anything, Indigo.” He replied.

Looking left and right was a mistake. Looking anywhere but at the tombstone before him was a mistake. He had no clue who he would see. He didn’t even know the names of all the people he had killed. And looking at any rock with a name carved into it was enough to make his gut twist and his heart beat faster as he questioned that person’s death. (Had he killed them? Where they there because of his actions?) And then there was the nagging thought that one of them could have had Indigo’s name on it. It wouldn’t have been hard for him to leave it at that, it wouldn’t have been difficult at all on that day for him to kill her. It would have been so incredibly easy; there wouldn’t have been a second of hesitation. But in the end he had hesitated and for that one moment of uncertainty he would be forever grateful. It had been the best choice he could have ever thought he’d ever make. Even though in that moment he had felt like a fool there wasn’t a passing day where he regretted the decision he had made. And even though each time he hugged her or kissed her or pressed himself up against her he had to beat down a rapid moment of guilt he never wanted to let her go.

It was crazy, but he was sure he truly loved her. Even though he had yet to gather the proper courage to whisper them to her face he knew it, within his heart that he was utterly and hopelessly in love with the girl he had almost killed. Not a day would go by until the day that he died without him feeling that guilt of those days. So many times he had wanted to asked for her forgiveness, but he couldn’t bare bringing the memory up, for fear that she might remember it and turn away from him. That was ridiculous in itself to even think it, and yet it was what kept his lips firmly pressed together whenever he even dared to breathe a single word of that moment.

It was endlessly intriguing that a man such as Patch was so scared of something like that. Not two years ago he had been roaming the streets in search of a new victim, eager and craving the blood of some innocent person. He had based people daily, he had killed people weekly. He hadn’t given a second thought to what he had been doing. And when he wasn’t hurting people he was training in his room, fighting with swords, axes and weapons of all sorts, training his body and preparing it for a dream most careers wanted. He was a career from a non-career district. He was a fighter, a survivor and there was probably something very wrong with him. He loved fighting and when he was young he used to believe that there had been some mix up, that he was supposed to be in another district, because surely someone as ruthless, cold-hearted and psychotic as him was never meant to be where he was. Surely he was meant to have the glory he had always wanted. But no one ever came to take him away to another district, so instead the man decided to appease himself with playing games with others; he became a bully and a killer, quenching his lust for a better life on dishing out pain to others.

And all those dreams seemed so completely inadequate to the horror that Indigo had suffered growing up. The brave, courageous, fearsome girl before him had suffered lifestyle she had never deserved. The story he was being told had him widening his eyes, his heart began to hammer in his chest and his arms tightened at his sides. There was anger there, and the sadness he had first felt was quickly being drowning out by it, but it was not anger at Indigo, not Ivy not their mother, but at the monster of a father that had kept them trapped in a warehouse. He wanted to hurt that man, and for a moment he was tempted to ask her if he was still alive, and if he was where was he so that Patch could go there and hurt him like he had hurt the girl he loved. But to his own surprise he didn’t. Instead he remained where he was, and he closed his eyes for the briefest of moments, forcing that anger to evaporate. That rage was not something unfamiliar, he had felt it before, he had felt it a million times over and usually at the end of it he had a dead body on his hands.

He didn’t want another one on his hands; he didn’t want more blood on skin that was finally beginning to look more human than monster. Maybe that was cowardly of him, it sure felt that way, but he just didn’t want it. ”There is nothing to forgive, Indigo.” Stepping forward he wrapped his arms around her.

I hurt her like her father did.

His entire body tensed up and he pushed himself away from her, eyes widening in panic. ”I’m so sorry. I am so very sorry that I did what I did to you. I’m sorry I hit you the day we met, I am so sorry I hurt you in ways you did not deserve. And I will live with that guilt and pain for the rest of my life and it is because of you I have come to learn how to feel that. I am just so sorry, Indigo, for doing that to you. I did exactly what your father did to you. I’m just… I’m so sorry.”